Sleepless Nights in Ballarat
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Charlie's had a lot of those lately. (HEAVY s4 spoilers. Mostly canon compliant)


Again: this fic contains heavy s4 spoilers. Dont read if you dont want spoilers.  


A/N who else was totes recked on friday know I was. So I created this. warnings for brief mentions/thoughts regarding suicide/being suicidal.

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they blame you, they blame you, they blame you.

The three words repeat over and over in his head, like a mantra. Charlie knows better, by now, then to waste his time feeling sorry for himself.

don't blame yourself, dont balme yourself, dont blame yourself

Lawson's last words to him continue to struggle their way though his head, over ruling the rest of his thoughts. I did this for you, he can see it in Lawson's eyes. Hear it in his tone. Blame, blame, blame. Hobarts eyes fix on him when he struggles to stand. Matties lips are pulled tight. Blakes fingers are curled.

They blame you, they blame you, they blame you.

A slideshow of memories plays in his minds eye.

Eating lunch with Munro. _Being tripped up the stairs._ Beatrice smiling. _Mattie's blue moulin rouge skirt._ **Mick being run down.** _Mrs Beazley making biscuits._ Rachel, the Goodman Boys girlfriend crying by the lake. _Bees buzzing in his face_. Lawson calling him a violin. _The barbers straight razor on his chin._ Alice Harvey in the grip of a mad man. _Blake's face when he arrived that night._ Beatrice's little whimper. **Mick being run down**. Mattie drinking tea on the couch. _Hobart standing outside the station smoking._ Blake slamming him against the wall. _Munro bent over; clutching his shoulder._ Lawson turning his back and leaving. **Mick being run down**. _Munro giving a brief._ Late night phonecalls with Lawson. _Blake offering his flask._

He does not play the memories he does not want to think about right now. He thinks about Constable Mick Martian, who cant recall anything that's happened to him since after he was seventeen. He thinks about Mick's teary eyed wife who thanks him over and over again for coming to see them. He thinks about how when he first arrived, Mick was the first one to make him feel even a tad welcome. He thinks about how no one even seems to remember Mick but him.

He thinks about Hobart offering him a cigarette, the taste of smoke in his mouth while they stood outside the station, under the safety of a gutter as ran splatters the ground in front of them. He can see the fire escape above them, where he led Joe to see Mattie.

And Jesus Christ. What about Mattie anyway?

Another slideshow of memories.

Mattie O'Brian elbowing him in the face. _Cleaning flim opposite to her._ Her fingers cradling a small glass of drink. **Her smaller hands holding his bloody ones under the tap.** _Standing with her by the window._ Her smiling portrait. _The note she left when she went to visit Melborune._ Her being hugged against Blake's chest as he arrested the ambo. _Serving her father carrots._ The gentle noise of her breathing as she studied at the table. **Her smaller hands holding his bloody ones under the tap.** The floral smell of her perfume.

He does not think on the memories of the hospital. Who was Mattie O'Brian to him, anyway? He wonders, if he hadn't arrested her, back then, when he was newer, less tired, would they be friends now? Would they have more then the shadow of politeness they put on for each other's benefit? He isn't sure. He has often thought her an ally, of sorts, but he has no doubts that when the metaphorical shit hit the metaphorical fan, he would not be the one she chose. And fair enough. He would probably not chose her either.

Gazing off into the night sky, a soft crackling brings him back into the present. He looks down at his hand, slightly blue in the cold colouring of the night. The cigarette he had been smoking needed to be ashed. He thinks, slightly mournfully that he has missed his chance to smoke this one. He dropped it onto the porch and crushed it under his shoe.

He produced another one from the inside of his pocket and stuck it between his lips, before locating a lighter and using his hand to protect the flame from the wind. He sucked in a deep breath and let it sit in his lungs for a few moments before breathing it out. Unbidden by him, another slideshow of memories dredge their way up to the surface.

Hobart passing him a lighter. H _is father ashing into a glass ash tray in their kitchen._ Mick offering him a light. Hobart glancing at him as he made his way though the halls. _Lawson telling the member of Bobbys band not to smoke._ Hobart approaching him.

he blames you, he blames you, he blames you.

dont blame yourself.

they blame you, they blame you, they blame you.

He can feel it like it still, a burning on his sternum where Lawson flung him out of the way. His feet still feel the stumble that probably saved his life. He can hear the screaming still, rattling around in his head with such force that it might well burst free from his eyeballs and splatter him all over the brown gravel of the driveway. There are still corrugated iron shaped bruises on his back from his roll in the grass. It feels like snapshots of memory, rather then the things that had actually happened. But every snap shot is so clear. The smell of oil and grass, mixing with the cooper tang of blood and Lawson's after shave. The chilly feel of the air quickly becoming stiflingly hot as he panicked.

His hands shaking as he tried to stop the blood flow. He is not a doctor. He is not a doctor. He is not a doctor. Lawson is making so much noise. Stop the blood, stop the blood, stop the blood. He can see the break. If he applies pressure then it will make it worse. Think Charlie, think Charlie, think Charlie. He later finds out that the entire ordeal took roughly a minute to occur, and his tending to Lawson was less then thirty seconds but it felt like an eternity.

Moments that felt like years ticked by and he screamed. He remembers that clearly because he gets five 'helps' out before his voice breaks like he's a child. He must be crying then, because he can feel a wetness on his cheeks that is so different to the wetness on his hands. Lawson, thankfully, doesn't notice. He would probably never let him live it down. This was just some kind of prank. Any second now Lawson is going to get up and call him a cry baby. Blake will come out of the bushes and tell him it is fine.

He does not know why he would think that. There is nothing that has happened to indicate this isn't part of the waking, anxiety filled nightmare that is slowly over taking his life. Funny where the minds goes.

Just once, he would like the bad things that happen to him to not actually happen. He would like to wake up in his fathers strong, warm arms, his mother visible as a sleeping lump in her bed opposite to his. He has not thought about sleeping in his father's bed since he was fourteen, the war was ending and his dear old dad kicked the bucket.

Funny where the mind goes.

He takes a drag from his cigarette.

He goes home while they tend to Lawson. He is to dazed to drive himself. Someone drives him, but he can't recall who. It gets a lot fuzzier when Lawson was in competent, non shaking hands. His ribs begin to hurt now the adrenaline has worn off. He might make a cup of tea he isn't sure. It may have been coffee. All he knows is that he drops it on the kitchen floor and justs stands and stares at it until Mattie comes home.

All and all he must have made a sorry sight. She doesn't tell him it was all a joke. She updates him on Lawson and instructs him to wash his hands in the sink. He does. She tells him he has broken ribs. He says he knows. She asks why he didn't go to the hospital. He says everyone was busy. She gives him the 'You're an idiot I have no idea how you made it to thirty without killing yourself by accident' look. (she blames me, she blames me, she blames me) She calls Blake, who comes home, feels around and prescribes him drugs to kill the pain. They aren't working really well but he doens't dare take time away from Lawson to ask for something stronger.

That; and when he spends too much time around Blake he starts to get the feeling of blame again, the one that sits in a tight ball in the bottom of his stomach, rolling and churning with each extra moment. The sort of blame that made food inedible and drink ashy.

they blame you, they blame you, they blame you.

its not your fault. its not your fault. its not your fault.

It is not Lawson now but Blake. He said it twice while he checked him over. A slideshow of memories sets into motion for the fourth time that night.

Blake driving his car round to protect him. _Blake offering his flask._ T **he warm, firm hand on his shoulder.** Blake feeling gently along his broken ribs tactfully ignoring his soft hisses of pain. _Blake sharing stories with him of his adventures in Ballarat before Charlie came to town._ T **he warm, firm hand on his shoulder.** Blake offering him a drink. _His eyebrows raising, silently suggesting he check out Tynemans party._ Blake and Munro locked in a battle of wills. **The warm, firm hand on his shoulder.**

Blake keeps telling him to go see Lawson. He keeps refusing. He doesn't not think he can handle the ball of guilt and blame in his stomach if it grew any bigger. Perhaps it would burst his stomach and leave him with a painful reminder of how human people tend to be, even ones he had thought might be invincible, like Matthew Lawson.

Funny thing was he never even asked to be saved. Really, if he had been hit by that car what would have changed? He's not suicidal, (not anymore, at least) but what if Lawson hadn't thrown him over to the wall? He would probably still be the superintendent of the station. And he would be dead, no one could blame him for that, could they? What if he hadn't been so spared?

He is aware that he is getting into dangerous mental territory now. He looks out at the sky, and he can hear the distant rumble of horse and cart as someone across town got their milk. The sun is just beginning to tickle the horizon. He takes a drag of his cigarette.

Just another sleepless night in Ballarat.

.


End file.
